


No concern of yours, my friend

by knifewingo



Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-02-27 11:09:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18737824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knifewingo/pseuds/knifewingo





	1. Chapter 1

It was well past noon, but barely felt it. Every cloud blasted away by the blistering sun that beat down on the cracked earth like an infernal chain gang. A mirror haze slithered over the horizon, vicious and fanged, chasing away any patch of shade or water that might’ve clung to a notion of coolness. All bar one, of course, one final withered lake of dark beneath a single crooked tree. Diego watched its wizened branches sway in the baking breeze, painting its way across the plains with a ruddy smear of ashen dust that coffin-coated your skin.

By all means, a lovely afternoon for a hanging.

Diego had always been drawn to trouble, like flies to a desiccated steer. Now, he moved a lock of oilslick hair from his hawk eyes as he peered at the little ant men moving in that tear of shadow. Shifted his black hat, resettled his feet in the long stirrups beneath him. His horse huffed heavily, hot breath dusting the bare ground beneath them. Diego smoothed a patterned hand over its damp neck, gleaming with reeking salt sweat. They both were - his shirt and jacket pasted to his back like posters outside a saloon. It was so inhumanly hot, in fact, that the last few remaining drops of rationality he’d been holding onto like a marooner’s rum had turned to steam several hours before. Now he found himself here, watching from a distance as some fool tried to fling a coarse rope over one of the thick branches; it was hot, and he was angry, and just two days ago he’d held the last person he might’ve called a friend on the whole fucking planet as they gaped for their last breath, and he was about seven seconds away from making another one of those stupid decisions he was so prone to. At least this time, he really did have no fucks left to give.

Now the poor bastard these vultures had decided to string up - he could see from his perch on the ridge - was huge. Built like a steam engine, steeled and sturdy, he had a head and a half on the tallest of the two bandits. Stripped down to his vest and jeans, his boots taken, wrists bound at his belly and the noose already draped around his neck like an indecisive dinner tie. Both bandits dressed like they'd raided the ‘used’ pile at the county undertakers - so Diego figured the ornate shotgun the smaller one pointed at their prisoner almost certainly didn’t belong to them. Holding a man with his own pistol was low, but Jesus, even a monkey could kill you with a shotgun. Finally the taller looped the rope over a tough branch and yanked it tight. Their prisoner staggered forward like an old mule - driven by the muzzle of the gun against his spine, he uneasily stepped up onto the crate they’d thrown beneath the tree. The tall one gave the rope a good yank and his friend a thumbs up when it held fast. Now the shorter of the two hooked his thumbs into his belt and spit on the ground before sharply kicking the box out from beneath the hanged man into a billowing cloud of dust. 

Diego had spurred his horse before the rope even snapped taut.

 

His heart beat with the hooves. He slipped his pistol out of its holster and aimed it past the glint in the animal’s eye. The taller one noticed first, shaded his eyes as he squinted at the sudden storm blasting down from the ridge. If he’d seen the shape within he hadn't the time to cry out; Diego’s bullet nailed him to the tree in a burst of poppy crimson. He’d done it too many times and now, in that split second of elevation between the gallop’s strides his feather finger had started to find the trigger by itself. The other bandit reeled in shock, his prisoner thrashing in the noose like a fat trout on a line. He fumbled with the shotgun like it’d rested in a fire for an hour - in an instant Diego had shot it out of his hands. The rider bore down on him now with the devil’s own fury and finally, cradling his shattered fist, he decided to turn and run. The horse skidded to a halt as they plunged into the shade - Diego stood in the stirrups and fired three shots after the runner as he swung out of the saddle. Only the second hit, and the bandit fell to the ground with a wet squeal. 

Without wasting a breath he took aim at the crude knot around the branch. The stranger, now purple faced and bare-toothed but still kicking slammed hard onto his knees as the last strand of rope pinged. Diego snatched away the noose and let him gently to the ground as he gasped for air. 

 

He was easily twice Diego’s size, shoulders like an anvil, coarse steel hair soaked with sweat. His vest too, drenched nearly translucent. “Take it easy, sir,” Diego hushed as he smoothed his hands over the stranger’s burning, crushed throat. The man coughed dryly, breath panicked and bright red eyes stung with shock. “You’re alright.” He spoke as if soothing a horse, sliding his palms over the stranger’s redwood arms to the rope at his wrists, cut him free with a few strokes of his knife. His trembling hands immediately closed around Diego’s slender arms as he tried to pull himself up. Diego fought to keep his balance against the stranger’s gator strength, patting his barrel chest as he helped to haul him up. Gritting his teeth, he dragged the man over to the tree, who’s bare heels left trenches in the still sand, and propped his back up against the trunk next to the crumpled body of one of his captors. Diego crouched in front of him, put a steady hand on his vast shoulder.

“You good there, my friend?” he asked gently. The stranger breathed like he’d forgotten how, clutching his throat, huge rasping breaths that sounded like an eagle’s beating wings. 

“Water,” he growled, wincing through the pain as if someone had squirted lemon in his eyes. Even rougher than a deputy after a bar brawl his voice had a strange, lilting softness - he hit the ’t’ and his tongue found his way around the word like he’d sculpted it himself. Now Diego had the chance to look at him; he had a strange, drawn face, hammer jaw, a nose and brow that might’ve been cut from rock and was stitched all over with old, pale scars. Not from around here, that was plain - lacked the softness in his cheeks and the spark in his sunken eyes. They had that much in common, at least. 

Diego cracked a smile and patted his thigh.

“Sure. I’ll get you some water.”

 

He’d actually put the other bandit entirely out of mind - might even have left him to crawl to his death if he hadn’t caught sight of the carpet of blood he rolled out behind him as he rested his hat on the saddle pommel. Absently unscrewing his canteen and taking a sip, he cocked his head and peered after the sorry display. The bandit’s panicked sobbing and uneasy breathing rattled over the desert’s orchestra of empty. 

“Where are you going, man?” Diego called after him. He yelped, rolling back onto his shoulder as he clutched the gushing wound splitting his belly. ‘Lord have mercy-’ Diego heard him whisper. He could smell the blood from here too, fresh and foul, that brilliant deep purple that had dyed empires. 

He’d never understood why people still struggled. Shot in the gut, shot in the lungs. Staggering forward with your throat cut. Wouldn’t it be easier just to give in? To shut your eyes and let it pass. It’s coming for everyone, anyhow. Why not savour that last moment of bliss?

Human beings, he figured, didn’t exactly have a history of making good decisions. Take a bite out of Eden or carry your own bowels for the last few feet of your life. Nothing was ever simple. Diego thumbed the hammer of his pistol, in its holster. Well; not nothing. 

Diego came towards him, all black clad, his own private funeral procession. “No,” the dying man spluttered over and over again - maybe if he said it enough Diego would just disappear - shaking his head wildly as he tried to pull himself away like a big shiny beetle with only one leg left. The bandit’s face drained of whatever blood he had left as Diego’s shadow pooled over him - a new dug grave flooded in steeple shade as the evening sun sank behind it. His eyes were crow picked wide and his lips stained with his own dark blood. “I heard you was dead,” he stammered. His breath came in hitches. The noise he made as Diego pointed the pistol at the crease between his eyebrows sounded, pertinently, like his brain had turned to jelly and leaked out of his mouth.

“You heard wrong.” 

The shot rang out over the plain, painted the dead man a halo of his own gore. Diego stood for a moment. Let the stillness seep into him as he wiped his hand over his mouth and observed his work. The brimming void like a hot wax seal between the corpse’s crossed eyes. Blood inking its way through the sand like the fine roots of a parched tree. His hand, slack and resting gentle on his still quivering guts. It was hard to die pretty out here. Every body he burst like a gorged tick, Diego was a little more glad he’d never have to see himself like this. And now, his friends wouldn't either. 

 

He should have seen it coming, really. Honestly he would have done the same. Still, as the knife tip sang over his jacket and pressed tellingly at the base of his skull, as the canteen was lifted from his left hand, he hung his head and groaned, gruffly. He glanced over his shoulder - the stranger, the hanged man, the rescuee, loomed over him, narrowed moss eyes calculating the value of Diego’s marked face. 

Fucking bounty hunter. Just his damn luck.

“Didn’t your mama teach you any manners?” the Outlaw drawled. His fingers flexed over his gun - difficult angle - maybe if he rolled forward he could clip the bastard before he drove the blade through his spine. Of all the people he could have ridden in to rescue. He should have known the face, should have seen it coming. Tip a bunch of paraffin on your morals and set them alight and you should damn well learn to stick to it. 

The stranger’s face didn't change at all, not a flicker of emotion, that same grim bluntness he’d even had swinging from a rope.

“She taught me to count instead.” 


	2. Chapter 2

Diego stilled in an instant, like he’d mistaken a bucket of horse shit for his boot and stepped in it regardless. Joseph had seen rattlesnakes react slower, and the same vicious tension that knotted into them when the spied a threat laced itself into the outlaw now. His eyes were fixed up into the street like they’d been nailed there. 

“What’s wrong with you?” Joseph frowned - he went to shove Diego’s shoulder but he snatched his hand away. Dallas had half a mind to slap Diego’s face raw when out of the corner of his eye he saw him; the huge silhouette standing with his back to the sun, shoulders locked and eyes fixed, the spitting mirror image of his companion (if the mirror was, a carnival mirror, made him 150 pounds heavier, a head and a half taller and also, white). The strangers eyes were blood wild and bull furious and Dallas honestly wouldn’t have been shocked if he started to snort smoke. 

The two stared at each other like cats with arched backs - the herd of townsfolk going about their daily business had caught the scent of death and it had shot a thrill into all of them. Some backed away into the shade of their porches, others watched the two men with caution, desperate for the declaration of war to break like a summer storm. Dallas’ mind tuned into the moment like tightened guitar strings. Fate had rolled a carpet out between the two men and was biting her nails waiting for blood. 

“Not this time,” Diego muttered to himself. His hand flexed - _flexed_ \- and Dallas snatched his wristaway like his gun was molten. Diego yelped and immediately grabbed his collar - would have hitched him up against a wall if there had been one handy, for sure. 

“Use your fuckin brain!” Joseph hissed, shoving him away. Diego looked equal parts furious and terrified. Dallas might have taken the moment to teach him a lesson - or at least try to get it through his thick skull that if you shoot someone dead in the middle of the street with no warning you’d be easier to hang than a dead rabbit and that if he thought for a second he could count on Joseph to have his back he had another thing coming; but unfortunately, the mystery gunslinger didn't seem to care about this either. His bullet split the air between their heads and Joseph, known survivor, immediately ducked for cover. 

Diego was just as quick but instead of cowering behind a barrel he tumbled to the side and hammered four shots at the other man. The third clipped his arm as he walked forward and he rolled it off with a grunt. The rifle shook in his hands as he tried to steady it at his hip, firing off another two quick shots at the outlaw and instead puncturing a couple of holes and a fistful of splinters into the whitewashed church. The citizens had finally decided that this was dangerous, actually, and had collectively scurried away screaming into their buildings like startled roaches. Diego dodged the next bullet only by diving to the ground. He shot the last two of his on his ass and shuffling backwards - the first hit the other man’s shoulder with a firework of red - the second only grazed his grizzled cheek. The stranger roared like a bear and surged towards him - Diego tossed the empty gun aside and tried to scramble to his feet. Their bodies met with a meaty thud and the huge stranger immediately flattened Diego into the dust, their hats flying off as they slammed into the ground. Diego’s fists railed against the other man’s mallet head but his hands were at his throat, so at his throat in fact, there wasn't any throat left to see. His knee dug into Diego’s guts and the outlaw gasped for air like a decked fish. The gunslinger’s rage burned like wildfire. He slammed Diego into the ground, thrashed him around like a terrier in a rat pit. Diego’s face had gone bright red and his eyes misted, strength failing as he clawed at the other man’s eyes. The gunslinger dodged around his flailing like he was no more than a determined bluebottle and squeezed his hands just that little bit tighter, unsatisfied till he’d seen the whites of his prey’s eyes go red. He gritted his teeth and grimaced through the blaze in his shoulder and bicep - his dripping blood had inked its way over Diego’s glistening chest and recoloured his stained collar. His fight finally flooding away, Diego’s hand searched limply for purchase on his attacker’s coat, absently smoothing the plane of his chest. Inadvertently, his fingers brushed over the hole in his shoulder and, in the second he winced, the stranger’s grip loosened enough for Diego to suck in a dry, grated breath. He gasped back into consciousness and, immediately de-fogging his panicked mind, rammed two fingers into the bullet wound he’d just found. 

The stranger howled in agony and collapsed backwards. Drenched in sweat and exhausted, it was all Diego could do to straddle his waist, twist his wrist and punch him in his blunt face. Diego’s wrist crunched in the man’s fist as he reached over to stop him but he swore his way through the pain and pressed in further. The gunslinger screamed a handful of curses in a language Diego had no hope of recognising and gave one last, great effort to throw him off. Diego, who was heavier than he looked, unfortunately weighed exactly nothing to him, so again went crashing to the ground. 

His eyes streamed with tears and he coughed like he’d mistaken sand for whiskey - the throbbing in his crushed wrist made him retch and he hunched forward to spit up foam. Cradling the fracture he shuffled away until his back hit the church. His palm was still slick and sticky with the other man’s blood - he looked down at it, watched it glisten horribly in the sun. In the street, the stranger groaned, curled in on himself and holding his fucked shoulder as it poured with fresh blood. 

On the other side, Dallas peered out from his barrel like a cat-wary mouse. He scouted the shade as he got to his feet and brushed down his jacket. 

“Hey you!-” he pointed to a young lad who’d hoped to make a break for it in the silence, snapped his fingers to get his attention. “Go fetch a doctor. And bring this man some water!” He gestured offhandedly to Diego, who, still dazed, shot him a look that was thoroughly unimpressed. 

His shadow stretched over the stranger as he stood by his shivering body. He sniffed, looked around - his magpie eyes drawn immediately to the feller’s rifle, a real nice piece of gear, engraved brass and polished wood. Looked like something you might stumble upon in a plantation owner’s parlour, for shooting birds on weekends to impress fine ladies. There was nothing fine about the brute of a man in the street, and while he didn’t dress like he had money to burn his clothes were the kind of quality you didn’t see often outside of big towns - and rarely this far out west. 

“You doin alright down there, partner?” Joseph asked, bouncing on his toes, smug and excited and charming all rolled into one in that way a lifetime of snake-oil salesmanship had gifted him.

“Fuck off,” came the stranger’s gruff reply. 


	3. Chapter 3

“Drop the towel.”

Diego’s dark eyes narrowed, just a sliver. Now, he had that way of standing you could only master if you were small, and your cloth had been cut jagged from a sheet of pure rage; shoulders rolled back, spine tight as tensed steel, each muscle primed just like the hammer of Dallas’ pistol as he thumbed it back now. It locked in time with Diego’s jaw - Joe couldn’t have sworn if the younger man’s iron glare was on him or the hollow barrel of his gun. Even the metal seemed to tremble in his hand - but he wasn’t stupid enough to make the mistake of showing it. He’d made his bed and now, he was sure as hell gonna lie in it. 

“I said drop it.” 

He didn’t drop it, exactly - and somehow did so without losing a breath of tension - so much as unwrap it like a gun belt and snap it to his side as if taunting a bull. Dallas craned his neck up with a smug grin, gave his boy a once-over. From his perch at the window Zachariah watched them both from the far corner of his eye - the knell of his grizzled face ringing unimpressed as ever. But he wasn’t blind - Diego’s body was as fine as fresh pressed spanish leather. As he stood there, staring Dallas down as if the dry noon sun was strapped to his back, Zachariah realised that his mouth had begun to water. 

“Wasn’t so hard, was it?” Dallas drawled. He always spoke through a filter of tobacco but now, chin to chest, he wheezed like a balding dog. The hand in his pants twitched eagerly.

“See something you like, boss?” Diego rumbled. Dallas snorted, now quite unashamedly tugging on his cock. Across the room, Zachariah - who had entirely failed to tear his eyes away from the sorry spectacle - closed his book, and locked his fingers around his bony knees. 

“Well, all the girls seemed busy so I guess you’re gonna have to do, sunshine,” Dallas sneered. “Now how’s about you get over here and help me undress?” 

Sweat prickled the back of Zachariah’s suddenly red neck. Diego’s eyes flickered between them - in a split second of hesitance Zachariah looked away. He _knew_ , could feel it in the lightning licking over his spine, that Diego had tasted his moment of weakness and it had _absolutely_ turned him on. His energy shifted - like the noose had slipped from around his neck - and Diego eased back into his cool, cocky self like a pair of old boots.

“Why don’t you quit pointing that gun at me, before I get one of those stupid ideas in my head?” 

All the bones in Joseph’s back cracked as he sat up, belly spilling over his belt. Horny and pissed - it was maybe the closest to intimidating either of them had heard him.

“I’ll quit pointing the gun at you when you start behaving yourself, puppy. Now get that tight little ass over here and put your smart mouth around my dick.” 

Dallas spread his legs as Diego knelt on the bed. His aim unwavering, he unbuttoned his jeans with the other hand. Between his knees, Joseph pressed the barrel into the hook of Diego’s jaw and pushed his thumb into his hot mouth. His slicked jet hair gleamed in the gaslight as Dallas forced him to his crotch and onto his half-hard dick. Dallas howled relief as Diego swallowed him down, his head moving between Dallas’ thighs as he worked him - maybe harder than he needed to. Diego’s razor tongue painted lengths as Joseph’s cock stiffened in his mouth, teeth just grazing the tip as he gasped for air. His hands left waves in the thick hair on Joseph’s thighs, smooth fingers tracing tender shivers all the way to the smooth line between his legs. Dallas moaned loudly, gladly fucking Diego’s head, letting all of his pathetic reasoning and excuses melt away to the rhythm the outlaw set. Only, when Diego’s fingertip circled Dallas’ asshole he yelped, snatched a handful of his hair and pressed his gun to his temple.

“Do anything I don’t tell ya to and I’ll paint this room with your fucking brains, understand?” He snarled - fury foaming at his stained teeth. Diego grunted - _yes_ \- and slid his hand to the base of Dallas’ cock. Dallas watched as he worried the throbbing foreskin with his teeth, pressed an icy kiss to his tip and took him again. Satisfied, he shut his eyes and sank back into the fat pillow, crooked his gun hand behind his head and huffed. “Good boy,” he grinned, snidely. 

If Zachariah had been flush before, every drop of blood had subsequently drained from his face. His heart rattled in his ribcage like an over-stoked train on an unfinished track. He muttered to himself under his breath - disjointed words that unwrote themselves as soon as his tongue inked them. He tried - so fucking hard - to look anywhere, anywhere other than Dallas’ self-proud smirk, at Diego’s wavering hips, at the urgent outline of his own boner stretching his jeans. He bit down on his finger but even with his eyes screwed shut the image of them was seared into his mind. ‘ _Why don’t you join us, big guy?_ ’ He couldn’t have decided which of them said it, or if it was just his own overworked imagination - but he didn’t need to be asked twice. 

He got to his feet like Gabriel had pulled him from his grave. Dallas’ caught his eye as he strode over to them - gave him a knowing, gleaming wink. It would probably have been enough to quench his desire and turn his stomach if, well, he wasn’t already past the point of no return. He grabbed Diego’s cheek as he stood behind him - breath shallow, pulse thundering like a mighty summer storm in his burning ears - let his coarse hands wander over his thighs, between his legs, feeling the shape of his twitching cock and finally pushing his licked thumb into him. Diego whined keenly as Zachariah’s fingers tested him, pushing his hips back and opening for him.

“You’re a greedy little slut, aren’t you puppy?” Dallas chuckled breathlessly. Diego moaned - Zachariah felt it vibrate all the way through him. By the time he’d pressed his tongue against him and branded Diego’s ass with his teeth, Zachariah was so frantic, sweat drenched and light headed he was no longer certain he was conscious. He dropped his pants and rubbed his thick cock between Diego’s cheeks. The outlaw shuddered, his knees weak, as he sunk Dallas’ cock into his throat to stop himself from crying out. Dallas cackled like he was jeering on a dancing monkey. 

“Goddamn, that’s wicked. You gonna make him beg for ya, Zachy?” 

Zachariah’s iron grip drove into Diego’s hips as he pulled him where he wanted him - he shivered, teeth gritted and any blood vessel a second away from bursting as he tried in vain to maintain a single ounce of control. 

“Could you shut up for a single fucking moment, please,” he snarled. Understandably, Dallas visibly gulped. 


End file.
